


Dial M (for woe evermore)

by JaqofSpades



Series: Dial M for Murder [2]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mafiaverse, TSC prompt 9, Voyeurism, no blackout au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 14:45:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4880842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had hatched the plan just a few weeks after their wedding day. Play nice. Lay low. Do everything they were asked to, and do it so well there could be no doubts as to their loyalty. Then strike.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dial M (for woe evermore)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steph_Schell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph_Schell/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Tragic Set of Charms](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031084) by [Steph_Schell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph_Schell/pseuds/Steph_Schell). 



> This was written as my Charlie/Connor fill for Prompt 9, Dial M for Murder, as part of the Orgy Armada's challenge, Revolution: The Second Coming. It is an immediate sequel to its companion fill, Dial M (for death at your door).

  


They had hatched the plan just a few weeks after their wedding day. Play nice. Lay low. Do everything they were asked to, and do it so well there could be no doubts as to their loyalty. Then strike.

Sentiment, they had agreed, had no place in their decision making. Patricide was too ugly a word, and besides, Miles was her uncle, not her father. (Connor had no such convenient out, and she didn’t want to think about how haunted he looked of late.)

Being trussed up like a turkey and spilled at Monroe’s feet to be accused of turning State’s Evidence – it simply adjusted the timetable, Charlie insisted. The plan was still the same. Aim, and fire. Matheson and Monroe, disposed of in a single hit.

Charlie and Connor, free.

Sucks that they had to embrace their hideous legacy to actually achieve that, but a tradesman does his work with the tools he’s given, and their families are embroiled in a very particular trade. Dial M for Murder, as the joke goes. Whether you get Matheson or Monroe, the outcome is the same.

Not exactly true, Charlie allows as she presses her cheek into the stock and lets the red dot roam all over his desk. There’s a reason she’s the one cuddled up to the rifle, and Connor has been handling the human interface. She can hear him on the phone right now, falsely jovial as he gives the response to the coded message, then flashes the ten minute warning her way.

Miles is on the move.

The Monroes excelled at logistics, and the Mathesons were hitmen. Good old Uncle Miles had personally trained her in several forms of martial arts, knife handling, and a small arsenal of firearms. For this job – _just a job, just like any other_ – she chooses the M110. Miles, relic that he is, prefers the M24, and so did she really, when she was shooting for fun. But when it came to killing, she wants the cleanest, surest shot possible. And the laser guidance system helps to ensure that.

The little red dot is dancing over his forehead, the marksman’s urge to take the shot leaving every muscle in her body tight. But she and Connor had agreed the two old monsters needed to die together – take out just one, and the other would tear the world apart to find the shooter.

Maybe that should have been her warning, she will think later, when her entire worldview has been blown apart.

Miles sidles into the room just after six and crosses immediately to the drinks cabinet. Monroe, her scope shows her, rolls his eyes and moves to the window, staring out into the twilight as the valley below slips towards darkness. How like him, she thinks, to stand backlit in front of a huge, uncurtained window. So much hubris.

Her trigger finger starts to itch, but Miles is still hanging back, and something tells her this is not the right time. To wait. Trust your instincts, Uncle Miles had taught her, so wait she will. (How weird is it that she’s still taking advice from the guy, even as she sits here, waiting to kill him.)

Then he comes up next to Monroe, and offers him a glass, cocking his head to listen as the Don asks some sort of question. She can’t lipread, but the shape of the words are tantalisingly familiar. Names, she realises slowly. They are talking about her and Connor.

And there’s none of the exasperation or annoyance she would have expected. Their faces are open in way she has never seen before and she watches, transfixed, as worry, pain, amusement and something that she can’t – won’t – put a label on transforms their faces.

Then the entire world shifts again as Miles takes the drink out of Monroe’s hand, and pulls the other man into a kiss. She might have been able to explain it away as an aberration, an innocent gesture she’s seeing out of context, until they start yanking at each other’s clothes, trampling all over Italian linen shirts and impeccably tailored pants in their need to get each other naked as quickly as possible.

To fuck, she realises, just as Connor puts his hand on her shoulder. Miles and Monroe are about to fuck.

“What’s going on? No lines?” her husband asks and – oh God, does he know?   Connor still gets a sad, faraway lilt in his voice when he talks about his early years with his mother and sisters and a loving, attentive father – will whatever this is shit all over that?

Charlie hyperventilates, panicked. Does she even have a right to keep it from him?

She peeks through the scope again, and almost chokes at the sight of Monroe down on his knees, eyes closed in bliss as Miles jerks all over his bare chest and face. His expression is beatific, then turns wicked as he offers Miles a taste before reaching round to – oh God. She can’t.

“Charlie?”

Connor’s voice is sharp, obviously aware she is reacting to something extreme.

“They – they …”

“What, Charlie? Let me see.”

She wriggles backwards from the scope, knowing it’s the coward’s way out, but grateful for it. Perhaps if they don’t put it into words they can forget …

“Holy Mary, Mother of God. Are they …” Connor splutters. “They are. Holy crap, they really are! _Jesus_.”

Charlie shoves him out of the way to deal with his shock, suddenly burning with curiosity as to what made Connor shudder like that.

“Oh!” Miles has Monroe plastered up against the glass, slamming into him with an enthusiasm that leaves Charlie momentarily impressed. Then her attention is riveted to Monroe’s face, a picture of serene contentment.

Fuck. They _loved_ each other.

She hadn’t thought either of them capable of loving anyone, not really. Had put down Miles’ presence in her life as some hamfisted attempt at control, and Monroe – everyone knew Monroe was all about keeping up appearances.

This is private. Who they are when they are completely alone.  Charlie shakes her head at the fact she feels more ashamed of having trespassed on their moment than she is of her perfectly justifiable plot to kill them.  


They sag against each other, done, then move away from the window. Shoot, dammit, her training screams, but her poor, overloaded mind simply can’t compute.

They’re still monsters, she reminds herself as they fall onto the couch together. Monsters who like to fuck, monsters who know how to love, maybe, but still monsters.

And yet, her targeting beam wobbles, wavers.

Changed circumstances, she tells herself. We need new information.

“Maybe …”

Connor lets out a long, harsh breath and she can see the hope glowing in his deep brown eyes.

“It’s leverage,” he offers. “We should at least look at our options.”

Charlie nods slowly, and thanks her lucky stars fate saw fit to marry her to Connor Monroe. They can use this. The monsters will give them whatever they want.

And she won’t have to break any hearts today.

She tries to hold back the grin, but it’s bubbling through her veins, wasted adrenaline and relief alike. “Lets go home, then,” she purrs, suddenly aware of just how warm she is. How wet.

“Nah,” Connor smirks, and pushes her towards the window. “Turns out I’m feeling kind of inspired.”

Yes, moans Charlie as he slips a hand inside her tight leather trousers to nudge at her clit. She’s still kind of shocked, but a whole lot of things are suddenly making more sense.

Matheson and Monroe. Wedded to death and each other, from one generation to the next.

(Sometimes family is murder.)

_fin_

 

 


End file.
